slightly left of center thoughts

I had one helluva disturbing night. I went out to have fun and didn’t expect that it would be such an effort to have fun. Sure, my friend’s the same. She’s the same old friend that I have known way back my days of chubby innocence. My woes have nothing to do with her, maybe I am the one who changed. It’s just that all through the night until I arrived home I am only reminded of my imperfections. It became glaringly clear to me, by taking a hard and long look at my self-from my chipped and faded nail polish to the way I played with the ice on my beer-that I do not paint a pretty picture of a capable-take note, “mature”-adult. Or so it seems. Even this attempt to capture my thoughts is giving me a sense of futility knowing that even in the deep confines of my mind I cannot seek solace because my thoughts and words are so far from being perfect the way I want them to be. This is a good example of a night in which I clearly loathe being me. Why can’t I just be my friend whose knowledge about love and relationship etc is deeper than mine? Why can’t I be the goddam daughter to my mother who knows the relevance of a Sunday mass with family and the importance of the Feast of the Holy Family? I am not all these people whom other people expect a 26-year old to be! And as final proof of my quagmire which puts me even lower on the maturity scale, I am jealous of all the righteous persons because I have convinced myself that God loves them more. Dammit why can’t I have any smart and sane answers to all the questions that crop up in my world??? And why do other people have the answers??? What greater punishment could there be in life than to feel perennially inadequate, thus the endless quest to be good and loved??? Darn, I must be experiencing a quarter-life rebellious stage.

I used to think that when I reach this age I would be more at peace with the world and with myself. I used to imagine myself reaching that level of maturity and sophistication which the other 26-year olds radiate, but it seems that I am still stuck in the mud. I hate it when I feel this way because it only wants to make me feel even more rebellious. I hate the idea that I have to conform to the standards that all of society is trying to impose. I hate the protocols and social niceties, the expectations that at mid-20s I should be established in a boring job and paying my own insurance, taxes, etc. and that before 30 I should be married-happily or miserably, whatever! as long as I am married-and raising my own brood. I don’t mean to be neo-hippie or something…I just want to dig a pit for myself and live there for the rest of my life away from others.

This writing exercise is not making me feel better because even I, myself, had turned against me-noticing every bit of flaw in my grammar, the jagged train of messy thoughts and the pathetic whining. I thought that writing would help clear my mind but it only helped raise many more questions; it only reminded me that I am such an absent-minded freak because I am clearly forgetting the main reason why I write anyway. But what the heck! I am going to do this as long as I want even if my fingers feel numb, my eyes have no more tears, and my mind bleeds dry of words. I am a rebel after all.

Boy, these surely are times when it is me against the world-against the self-righteous world, I mean. I have always noticed, those who are more tolerant and forgiving of themselves are surely more tolerant and forgiving of their neighbors and those who give themselves more freedom are more likely to give others the freedom to be themselves as well.

Surely there have been times when I am completely in love with my life and the world I live in. And people have loved me back as well. I could never be more thankful for such a gift. These were the moments of pure bliss, when it seems that nothing could ever go wrong again. But then, everything has its end. The dark days crept slowly as if to contrast the festive atmosphere and the bright lights around me. It is so ironic that everything around me is so merry but I feel dark and brooding inside. What is even worse is that I have to pretend that I am fine, that I am normal, lest people hate me for being different and weird.

At the end of it all, I just want to say that this is not my night. Definitely not my night. And tomorrow I will take off this stupid prostitute-red nail polish, go to mass and try to act like a normal 26-year old.

~ by frozenmocha on December 27, 2008.